Smothering the Ashes
by Miss Murphy's Dandy
Summary: Sometimes it takes someone even more relentlessly stubborn and determined than yourself to force you to fan the flames you were attempting to smother.  Peeta's still playing the game, still selflessly attempting to save Katniss. Please review! Thank you.
1. Chapter 1

Story idea that wouldn't shut up today.

Sacrifice has always come too easy for him, especially when I was involved. He was a born martyr. I never asked it of him. In fact, I have despised him for it on more than one occasion. In the end, though, despising him just made me feel guilty: guilty because I have never deserved his relentless and overwhelming love.

When I'd first returned to District 12 I had been alone: stuck in my own head, a desperately horrific place. I moved only from the floor of the living room, the carpet dingy and dirty, to the bathroom. I never turned on the lights. I had smashed out the mirror in the bathroom at some point. Someone must have tidied the shards of glass. I picked listlessly at the food that appeared in front of me now and again. I would breathe. I would cry out. I would writhe in agony. I would shiver, not from the cold, but from the mind numbing memories that played like a broken recording in my mind. It lasted forever. It just kept going and refused to change.

At some point I heard his voice. A hundred years of lying on the floor, hearing nothing but the wails pouring from my heart, I heard him. It was close behind me and still carried that warmth and soothing grace it always had.

"Katnis. I'm here. I'm back." I felt his hand softly touch the back of my head, sweeping from the roots to the tip, like I was some lame abandoned mutt.

I retreated from the contact. The idea that I could be physically touched mortified me. My personal bubble ought to be made of steel. I wrapped my arms more tightly around my body and pulled my knees to my chest and focused intently on my breathing, staring hard at the doorknob of the bathroom door.

"What can I do?" His question meant for me, for the room, for himself. I felt the tips of his fingers floating just about me, repelled by my hostile force field.

"I tried to come back sooner." His voice trembled a little, sticking and tripping on the words as they spewed from him and all over me. "They wouldn't let me leave. I had to stay; it was part of the deal to get you out. I had to promote the new leadership; I had to convince the districts… I wanted to… I tried calling… are you ok? How can I help?..."

I wanted to hate Peeta then. But I couldn't feel anything. It was like the feeling had finally died in me. I had nothing to feel with. My heart was gone.

I smiled then. It was a mechanical smile. I knew I should be happy that I could feel nothing, but the beauty of feeling nothing, is that you feel nothing. My accomplishment deserved a smile, but I didn't have any real ones left. My muscle memory lifted the corners of my lips, but that was the extent of the gesture.

Peeta stood and walked around my rigid body and crouched down to face me. He was beautiful. They had fixed him since I'd seen him last. Apparently the camera's needed a pretty spokesman, so they must have sent Peeta back to the fancy Capital physicians. The light seemed to catch him just right. The blonde of his hair like a halo, his blue eyes sparkling, his lips red and full, almost womanly. I had a momentary urge to reach out and touch his face, feel the warmth I knew was behind his creamy skin. The need rushed through me and was gone as quickly as it had come.

His face distorted on seeing me. I, unlike Peeta had not been designed again. Additionally, I had not looked in the mirror, eaten, bathed, or cared for myself in any way in what I felt was certainly a millennium. I ought to be ashamed of myself. I ought to recoil at the thought of myself this way. But I just lay there, staring up at him.

"I can't see you like this." His voice low and broken sounding, like he were about to cry.

I wanted to spit back, "then leave and you won't have to." I hated him in that moment for been whole and alive, while I was dying on my living room floor and slowly becoming the carpet beneath me.

He stood then and walked into the bathroom and I was angrier at being abandoned. There was nothing he could do to make me happy. There was nothing anyone could do.

Later, a few minutes, maybe hours, he reappeared through the bathroom door. He stepped too close to me. He leaned closer and scoped me off the floor. I tried resisting and first, but my muscles were so atrophied I barely moved. My breathing took on a frantic pace and my body shook in anger and surprise.

The air in the bathroom was warm and wet feeling. It was heavy and smelled like lavender.

The bath was filled with steaming water. Peeta set me in the tub fully clothed, rolled up his sleeves and began washing my hair.

I noticed then that there was a horrible crying noise, overwhelming and tragic. It was my own voice. My breathing continued irregularly, but instead of fighting off my cleaner, I lay perfectly still and closed my eyes, blocking as much sensory stimuli as possible.

He washed my hair, peeled off the out layer of clothes caked against my skin and scrubbed with gentleness. My nurse was professional, focused, and soft. I played dead. It wasn't hard to do, for I really felt it.

He dried me, redressed me. He came back at me with food and force-fed me for a while. He left me there, on the couch in the living room and rubbed tirelessly at the rotting area of carpet that had been my home for so long.

Before leaving he knelt before me and sighed, "I'll do whatever it takes."

The resignation was there. I saw the determination and fervor in his steely blue gaze. Peeta could be disturbingly persistent and unhealthily resolute. But, so could I.


	2. Chapter 2

He came often. I'm not sure how often. But it didn't matter much. I tried to ignore his efforts as much as possible. I didn't want to survive this. In fact, if I'd had more energy I'd probably have made sure I didn't survive any longer. But, as it stood, I lacked the energy to do anything but actively ignore my nosy neighbor.

His gaze did not falter. In fact, with each encounter he seemed to look only more resolute. His touch could not have been softer; his focus could not have been harder.

One day, the background noise that came and went involved Peeta and Haymitch.

Haymitch's voice sounded angry, maybe even aggressive.

I could sense frustration in Peeta's voice and the echo of irritation in Haymitch's.

"Katniss wants to die, then let her! Stop caring so much! Go live your life! Staying in this festering hole's not going to do a damn thing!"

"I can't leave her! You know I can't, stop asking me to."

Did they know or care that I could hear them?

"Your methods aren't working. If you want to get through to her, this obviously isn't going to do the trick."

"Oh. And what do you suggest?"

There voices dropped. I could hear nothing else.

Peeta stopped coming over for a while. So, I lay on the couch and watched the memories slide across my train of thought. I let my hair knot and mat, and let my body waste.

I lived in a semiconscious state; never quite a sleep, but never in the world around me, always in my mind, trapped and refusing to look for an exit. This would be my end, and I rejoiced in the finality of it. I could leave it all. I could be free of this world, this burned earth.

I heard a crashing sound outside my house. Perhaps they were re-bombing the area. Let one hit me, I prayed.

A moment later my front door swung wide smashing against its hinges and leaving a doorknob-sized hole in the wall.

"This isn't my house!" Peeta shouted far louder than necessary. Then, as if he were drunk he whirled around and fell ungracefully to the ground. Slumped against the wall he stared at me with glazed eyes.

"This isn't my house," he repeated.

On closer inspection I noticed that Peeta was unkempt, his shirt buttoned up the wrong way, no shoes on, and something spilled down his front. He looked like he was drunk, because he was in fact drunk: fall over yourself, puke and don't notice, don't know your own name DRUNK.

I was shocked.

It was the first time I had felt anything really in ages and it was overwhelming. I felt myself begin to hyperventilate, my most common coping mechanism.

"What did you do to my house?" He slurrily asked, followed by a resounding hiccup.

And then I spoke for the first time since I had arrived back in District 12. "Peeta." It was all I could think to say.

He worked unsuccessfully at rising, while I attempted the same thing. My arms would not obey me; I was so weak. I pushed with all my strength to get myself upright. It was an arduous task and took several long moments.

In this time Peeta had managed to get himself standing. He was leaning precariously against the open door, which wobbled and tapped the wall as he worked to steady himself.

"I'm drunk," He informed me.

"Why?" apparently I was limited to single word conversations.

"Why not?"

He traced his fingers along the wall for support, leaving the front door yawning open. He took several steps towards me and said, in the most serious and sad voice I had ever heard, "I give up. I don't know why I even bothered."

Then reaching into his back pocket he pulled out a glass bottle similar in size and character to the bottles that never leave Haymitch's side. He uncoordinatedly twisted off the top and flopped into a seated position next to me on the couch.

I tipped myself in the other direction, lay down and attempted to find my way back into my mind. But, the boy next to me began retching and I was unable to escape the ugliness of the world around me and get back to the ugliness of my sub-consciousness.

I had cared for Haymitch enough times to know Peeta would need water. I tried for what seemed like hours, attempting to walk to the kitchen for a glass of water. My body was too weak and I had to crawl the majority of the distance.

Getting the glass back across the room was a torment of focus. I spilled a good portion of the glass but did make it back to an unconscious Peeta, sprawled haphazardly across my couch.

He was covered in bile and other stomach contents. I'm sure it would have smelled bad, if I had showered recently and could smell anything over my own reek.

I crossed my legs and leaned against the base of the couch trying to catch my breath. I nudged the legs in front of me with all my strength. They barely moved. With more determination than I realized I had I poked and prodded until I got a response.

He looked at me confused for a long time. I'm not sure it because he didn't recognize me at first, or if instead it was because he couldn't understand why I was sitting at his feet, attempting to lift a half-glass of water in his direction.

He took the glass from me and drank it down.

He face still looked perplexed.

"Thank you" he whispered.

I didn't respond, but stared up at him, mirroring his confusion.

"I should go." He said just then. And then he left. Shutting the door quietly as he stumbled towards his own house.

I crawled to the kitchen, making it to the window just in time to see him barge unceremoniously into his own home, the lights flicking on as he moved from room to room.

Making my way to the kitchen table I pulled myself onto a wooden chair and sat, staring at his house, wondering why the world felt as though it had shifted.

Unable to find my way back into my own torture chamber of a mind, I found myself thinking I ought to eat something.


	3. Chapter 3

I stayed in the kitchen all night. The lights across the lawn separating our houses blared all night. They were on in the morning, but harder to see. He didn't leave the house. Nothing seemed to be moving.

After gorging myself on a few slices of stale bread from the refrigerator I felt bloated and sick. I forced myself to keep the food in my stomach and by mid-morning the feeling of nausea eased away and I forced myself to eat another slice.

By noon I had still seen no movement from Peeta's house. I wasn't worried about him. I was really just curious, and that feeling felt so novel I sort of relished it. I didn't have the capacity for worry. I couldn't fathom the responsibility of caring for another human being; I couldn't even care for myself.

So, I sat and I watched. As things remained static I grew bored. I had not been bored in ages. I had not felt as though I had been waiting in ages. When was the last time I had waited for something to happen? I couldn't remember. I had just been. I had just existed. Barely.

In the afternoon the front door opened and Peeta spilled out. He tumbled and tripped down his steps and in the opposite direction of my house. His balance was still unreliable and he went from tree to tree as if his life depended on it.

He then disappeared inside Haymitch's house.

My curiosity was piqued. My curiosity had not been piqued for so long. I was riveted and it was so strange. I felt like getting out the popcorn to see what might happen next. I may not have been re-inspired to live my own life, but I was suddenly interested in watching the life of someone else.

A few minutes later Peeta reemerged. Under each of his arms were three liquor bottles. He had a dealer it would seem.

As he walked with great determination towards his own front door he looked briefly in my direction. His eyes locked on mine for the faintest of moments and I know he saw me seeing him. His lips made a small smirk and he refocused his efforts on the path in front of him.

With great purpose Peeta worked at getting himself and his bottles into his house. The endeavor took several minutes. The whole thing made me sad in a way I didn't realize I could be anymore.

Seeing Peeta dirty and disgraced made me want to take a shower. Made me want to scrub my skin off, made me want to get every particle of dirt off me. I ate another slice of bread and worked my way to the bathroom and stepped into the tub Peeta had washed me in.

I turned the water as hot as it would go and stepped under the stream. It burned me, especially my hands and forearms where the original burn had disfigured me. I dropped the temperature mildly and pulled out the soap. I lathered and scrubbed, lathered and scrubbed. I repeated this process until the water was very cold. My skin was pink and swollen when I stepped into my towel and scrubbed my skin one last time.

Coming out of the bathroom I noticed the stairs leading up to what was once my bedroom. I hadn't looked at these stairs in a long time. There were rooms upstairs that I would never be able to enter. Memories locked in those rooms that would haunt me the rest of my days.

But, I had clean clothes upstairs. I considered the steps warily. There were so many of them. They seemed to climb higher and higher into the heavens. I would never reach the top.

I got on my hands and knees and challenged myself to get up there. I realized half way up that this new vantage point would give me a better view of Peeta's house and that thought gave me the motivation I needed to reach the landing.

Looking down from the top made me feel dizzy. I should drink more water. The idea sprung into my head and resounded in my mind with my mother's voice. It irritated and upset me. I hadn't spoken to her since returning to District 12 and often times mourned her as if she were dead. But, she wasn't dead. I could call her. I should call her. But, I won't.

I changed into clothes from the closet of my room. They smelled like moth eaten dust bunnies and hung off me like a large tent.

There was a mirror in this room. Full length and nailed into the back of the door. I forced the door closed and looked at myself for the first time since coming back to this place.

Peeta's surprise when seeing me had been irritating to me at the time. I could see know it would be impossible to look at me and not be surprised. I looked so different. I looked so broken and forlorn. I looked almost dead.

I look the old dress off and looked clinically at the skin and bones staring back at me. The dark rings under my eyes sat heavy on my face; the bones protruding at sharp angles making shadows dance in the harsh lighting. My hands were scarred and discolored. My skin clung to me, thin and papery. I looked so fragile. A wind might carry me off. My knees, elbows, and hips poked out and looked as if they might break through my skin. My ribs rippled across my chest in a symmetrical stripped pattern. It was horrific and I threw up all the bread in my stomach just looking at myself.

And then I cried. I cried because I was broken. I cried because my sister was dead. I cried because my mother had abandoned me. I cried because the world I had lived in was gone, razed, and un-resurrectable. Everyone who was left had changed. I had changed.

I felt my face swelling and puffing. I looked back at my visage. If it were possible I looked worse.

I threw a shoe at the mirror and in bounced off. I felt powerless and feeble.

These were two things I had struggled against since my father had died. I had found strength and courage in myself because I'd had too. That was gone and I mourned that girl. I mourned the girl that had outwitted and had survived 2 Hunger Games. I mourned the girl that caught a nation on fire and lead a rebel movement. Only her ashes remained.

END CHAPTER…


	4. Chapter 4

Before I continue, I would just like to say how great it is to get feedback. Blah, blah, blah everyone is out pandering for reviews, but I got to say, it sucks putting yourself out there to hear nothing but crickets in return. I mean really. Don't any of you have something to say? Anything? Shoot, I might even take a few bad reviews, if it means someone cares enough to write. Pathetic, I know. Take pity. Let me know what you think. -K

Chapter 4

I woke up naked, arms and legs folded in on themselves hugging my bones together.

I sat up and stared at my reflection.

The light of the morning sifted though the dusty room and chased out the darkness. I still looked thin, frail, even hallow. But I tried to look less broken. I lifted my chin and stared hard at my reflection, daring it to stare back.

I dressed myself slowly, the only way I did anything these days. Using the bed in the center of the room I worked my way to standing and stretched myself this way and that, trying to rid myself of the aches of sleeping on a wood floor overnight. I walked carefully to the window and opened it, letting in the fresh air. It was nice.

Opening the window let in more then fresh air, though. It also let in the sound of singing. Poor singing at that.

Down below me, lying on his back, eyes closed, bottle in fist, Peeta was singing some song. The tune was familiar, but so poorly done I was unable to recognize it.

Peeta was in his clothes from 2 days prior and looked worse for wear. Although, I now realized I wasn't one to talk.

I furrowed my brow and tried to figure out my neighbor. Had he really given up? What had he given up on? Living? Trying? Being my friend?

I tried to decide if any of these things bothered me. I decided that they bothered me. But, not enough to do anything about them.

It was weird not being on my carpet space, or lying on the couch. I felt like I ought to be doing something. Like I ought to be planning my day. But, I had nothing to do.

I should eat, I thought, scowling at my appearance in the mirror.

The trip downstairs was less traumatic than the trip up had been. I was never more grateful, however, for the railing.

I had very little food, it would seem, save the stale bread Peeta had left a week or so prior. I worked at the bread and scavenged through the refrigerator for anything else edible. There was nothing.

I knew well enough that I would not be able to make a trip to town in my atrophied condition, nor did I want to be seen. Perhaps I could borrow some food from Peeta in the meanwhile.

Walking was easier once you were up on two feet. I took one step and then another. His house was just a few more yards.

But, my neighbor was not in his house. He was still in the yard. Sleeping.

I walked in his direction and kicked his side weakly.

He roused slightly, only to turn on his side away from me.

I walked around and tried from the other side, "Peeta" my voice sounded grainy and hoarse from disuse.

His eyes opened at the sound of his name and stared up at me with a blank, uncomprehending stare.

"Could I borrow some food?" I asked, getting right to the point.

Peeta seemed to shake himself and focused for a moment before replying.

"Help yourself."

It was an interesting choice of words. Did that mean that he was done helping me? That I should be the one to help me? Or simply that I was welcome to his rations?

It felt wrong, to walk to his house and leave him here in the grass.

"Are you okay?" I offered quietly.

"Dandy. Never better." He sent me a winning smile and brought the liquor to his lips, drinking greedily from the bottle.

I felt my eyebrow raise in question, but I said nothing, sending my feet in the direction of Peeta's front door.

It was unlocked and upon opening the door I realized that I had never been inside Peeta's house. It was in ruin. Things were broken, furniture lay upturned, and bottles littered the floor. How long had Peeta been drinking like this? How had I not noticed until now?

I continued walking to the kitchen. The kitchen was also a disaster, but it looked like it was well stocked none-the-less. I found cheese and some kind of meat and made myself a small sandwich. Each bite needed to be chewed so many times.

I stood there, sandwich in hand, staring at the wreckage.

I heard Peeta enter the house. If he had been noisy walking sober, which he most certainly was, he was louder than a herd of elephants drunk. He stamped and slumped his way into the kitchen.

He leaned heavily against the wall.

"Welcome to my humble abode" He smirked.

I stared at him wide-eyed. This Peeta was so different.

"Thank you" I muttered.

"I'm well stocked. You're welcome whenever you like. I've not been particularly hungry anyways" He then turned and flopped himself onto a sofa that was relatively clean.

I stayed where I was: chewing.

Peeta was asleep again before my sandwich was finished.

I found myself wondering over to the sleeping boy, taking the bottle from his fist, where is seemed to live the past few days, and placing it in the kitchen. I took a clean looking blanket from the couch and draped it as best I could over him.

Steeling a few staple items that Peeta seemed to have in vast supply, I made my way back to my own abode. Forced myself to eat again, and found my place on the couch.

This day had been different from all the others. This day had a beginning middle and an end. I wasn't sure it was something I wanted a day to have, but I couldn't send myself back to my mind, it was just too lonely in there.

I wondered idly, before sleep found me, if Peeta was all right.

END CHAPTER.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

I could see out my kitchen window and into Peeta's living room. This morning I spied him puking for over an hour into a bucket on the floor of that room. He was retching and gagging. Seeing it made me want to follow suit. He looked miserable.

I touched the glass with my fingertips, feeling the cool smoothness and wishing I could be a better friend to my neighbor.

I was no longer lying on the floor. I had a routine now. Structure. Rigidity. Purpose. I clung to these things like my life depended on them. I was afraid of going back to the dark place. But I was in no place to help a friend in need.

I woke at dawn. I showered. I ate breakfast. I showered again. I walked to town and fetched any supplies I might need. I ate lunch. I wrote in my journal. I showered. I ate dinner. I started a fire. I watched the flames. I fell asleep on the couch.

It was breakfast time and I was trying to keep the yogurt in its rightful place, but Peeta's morning was invading mine. He deserved more than this.

He had been drinking almost ceaselessly, from what I could tell. His neighborly supplier seemed to have no trouble providing for his unquenchable thirst.

I needed to speak to Haymitch, it would seem.

I showered. Scrubbed. Scrubbed harder. Tried to think of a way I could shut my curtains and not think about Peeta. He had been wasting away, becoming more and more like a younger, more desperate Haymitch.

I walked with purpose out of my house and toward town. At Haymitch's house I took a hard right and marched up to his door knocking as hard as I could.

"To what do I owe this pleasure? Why, I haven't seen your shining face in ages." He drawled at me after opening the door.

"Do come it. You look famished, would you like something to eat? To drink?" He smiled coyly.

I stood in the doorway, refusing to enter.

"Stop giving it to him." I stated flatly.

"Stop giving what to who?" He asked, far too sanguinely.

"Peeta. Stop. You're hurting him."

"Peeta's a big boy. He gets to make his own decisions. Regardless of how foolish they are. Trust me sweet cheeks, I've tried" The humor missing from his words.

"He doesn't deserve this," my voice lifeless in my own ears.

"You couldn't be more right." Haymitch agreed knowingly.

"Then you'll stop?" I questioned.

"No. I'll keep giving Peeta whatever he asks for, because like it or not, I like him more than I like you."

"But you're letting him kill himself."

"I'm not forcing it down his throat. If you care so much, why don't you tell him to stop?"

"I can't"

"You won't. There's no use lying to me Sweets. But, if you want to delude yourself, you just go right on ahead."

I turned on my heel and headed into town for dinner supplies.

At the meadow I stopped and stared, giving the shared grave it's moment of silence. The forest behind it called to me, but I refused to answer it. I was no longer a hunter.

I made a watery soup and salad from my supplies. I glanced out the kitchen window. I hadn't seen Peeta leave the house in a few days. He was pretty holed up in there. I hadn't spoken to him in over a week.

I collected my dinner and without thinking much about it set one foot in front of the other and found myself at Peeta's front door. It was unlocked as usual and I let myself in.

"Peeta?" I called out cautiously.

Peeta was sitting at his kitchen table. Bottle in hand, sipping gently, hands trembling slightly.

"I don't think I want you to see me like this" He said, staring at the wall.

"I brought you dinner."

"I've no appetite" He voice sounded dead and cold.

"I'll just leave it then. You can have it later if you like." I moved to set the food down beside him.

His hand reached out for my wrist, finding it and wrapping it tightly. He looked up, eyes blood shot and desperate.

"Why are you here?"

"I told you. I brought you dinner."

"Why?"

"I thought you might be hungry. You don't look well."

"And you want to help me?"

I pulled at my hand, trying to get it back.

"I see you drinking. All the time."

"Why do you care?" His eyes hard and steely.

"Because. We were once friends. Back before we died inside." I whispered.

"I can't"

"You can't, what?" I asked softly, not understanding.

"I can't stop drinking. I shake and see things, and it makes the things from the Capital come back. I'm not strong enough to stop." His eyes painful and raw.

With my un-detained hand I reached up and touched his face. Just the way I had briefly wanted to when he had come to see me initially. I brushed the blonde hairs from his brow and ran them down the side of his face.

"I wish I could un-break you." I said softly.

He leaned his face against my palm then and closed his eyes, "I wish I could un-break you too."

I looked closely at him then. His hair shaggy and grown out longer than I had ever seen it. Even his face was covered in the soft blond stuff. His eyes were sunken and dark, his lips less full. He had lost weight and his clothes were wrinkled and poorly fit.

I sat down in the chair next to him and placed my hand on top of his. I looked into his blue eyes and lost myself for a moment. It no longer mattered that my sister had died, it no longer mattered that the town was in ruins. All that mattered was getting Peeta's eyes to shine again. I had to help him.

END CHAPTER.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

I left Peeta with the food and told him I would come back in the morning. When I had entered my own house, however, all I wanted to do was crawl onto the couch and find my nothingness.

I woke up several times screaming into the darkness around me. I saw fragments of horror: my sister arm, drenched in blood; Rue's lifeless eyes; a thousand sick and wounded on a hospital floor. My body trembled and I clung to myself for support.

I was underground in District 13, at one point, and the lights had gone out, I couldn't get to the surface. I was buried alive. There was no air.

All at once I needed out of the house. I needed the forest. I needed fresh air, and green living things around me.

It was pre-dawn and I grabbed my coat on my way out the door.

I walked until I came to the place the fence had once been. They had since taken it down and the demarcation was now no more than a step. Someone who did not know District 12 before would not know where the meadow ended and the forest started. I knew.

I hadn't been here since returning to 12. I look off my shoes and let my soles feel the earth here. The dirt was different. Everything was different. This place had helped me survive. The forest was an old friend. One that loved me still, but one that carried tragedy in its own right.

I walked with no direction for at least a mile. I circled around trees I'd climbed innumerable times, and glanced longingly at boughs I had hung traps from. Only it hadn't been just me. There was Gale too.

I hadn't thought of Gale in ages. I think I tended to mourn him as though he had died whenever he did appear in my consciousness. Gale and my mother were alive, but gone; gone forever. Gale was no longer the same, and so it seemed only fair to mourn the pre-Hunger Games Gale, who no longer existed.

The dew of the morning tickled my toes and the dirt caked on heavily. I sat for a long time on a felled tree and studied my surroundings. I let my eyes fall on the world the way it had once so long ago. I could see everything. I saw the movements; saw the subtle change of life as it grew around me. Small prey began zipping this way and that across the forest floor, through the brush, up and down the trees. I suddenly wished I had my bow, that I could focus my energy on this task.

Instead, I watched and waited. I breathed quietly. I stilled myself to the point of pain. My eyes the only thing about me that moved.

When the sun had completely risen and the light fell full and bright through the leaves I stood and stretched. I walked to a berry bush close by and gorged myself. I filled my coat with the berries and walked back the way I'd come, trying to track my own trail back through to the meadow.

I was exhausted upon reaching the Victor's Village, but felt that strange tug in the direction of Peeta's house. I knocked softly on the door. There was no answer.

I found the door unlocked. The light from the outside streamed into the front room on my opening it. Peeta lay there, in a pile of broken glass, small cuts on his arms and hands, unconscious.

I set my full coat on the ground and tiptoed through the debris. Then, in much the same way that I had tapped Peeta as he lay asleep in the grass, I attempted to rouse my neighbor.

The nudges were unsuccessful. I could see him breathing. But no other signs of life were visible.

I walked cautiously into his kitchen and saw the dinner I had brought untouched on the table. I scowled angrily at the food for a few moments.

I refocused my efforts at the task at hand and found a stowed broom and went to work on the glass, sweeping away from the unmoving body in the middle of the wreckage. That task completed, I went in search of a clean hand towel. Another kitchen find.

Kneeling down next to my injured neighbor I went to work removing glass shards from his skin and then applying as much pressure as I was able to stanch the red seeping from him. I struggled to disassociate the red pools from the person in front of me. I tried to remember the precision with which I had once gutted and cleaned my prey.

Once all the bleeding had stopped, I needed a needle and thread for a cut on his shoulder that had done more damage than the rest. I walked over to my house and collected the materials. I started a fire at Peeta's and sterilized my needle. I laced the thread and tied a knot to secure it.

Borrowing the remains of a liquor bottle on the counter, I cleaned the wound. This woke the sleeping man with a start.

"Ouch!" He shouted and sat up too fast.

He had to brace his spinning head with his hands to steady himself and shut his eyes tight against the dazzling light.

"Peeta" I said, in my most soothing voice. "Peeta, I need to stitch up your shoulder."

He slowly turned his head in my direction. His eyes were blood shot and unfocused.

"Haymitch is far too clever" Peeta replied.

"What?" I questioned.

"What time is it?" He asked, disregarding my confusion.

"Mid-morning."

Only at this point did Peeta look down at the trail of scratches and cuts down his arms.

"Shit." The word was said with a type of reverence, like he was surprised and satisfied with the injury he'd inflicted on himself. He then laid himself back to the floor.

Perplexed I steadied the needle between my fingers in one hand and held his skin in place with the other.

"You stick out you tongue when you're focused. You used to do that all the time." Peeta said gazing up at me, his words slow and lazy.

I blinked, registering his words and closed me mouth; my lips a straight line.

"Don't be mad," He slurred. I could feel his eyes on me, waiting for me to glance back at him. I couldn't do that. This Peeta was not my Peeta and I felt a heavy heart.

He didn't seem to notice the piercing of his skin; perhaps he was still numb from the alcohol.

When I had finished, I looked carefully at my work. It was clean, even, and well approximated. I thought of my little sister and wondered if she might be proud. I hoped she would be.

"You should eat." It was strange how our roles had reversed.

"Okay." He replied languidly.

"I found some berries." I paused, "don't worry, they're not the kind you found in the games" I smirked at him.

He chuckled with his entire body.

Managing himself into a seated position took just a moment. I returned to the kitchen for bread, Peeta's stockpile still in surplus, but growing harder by the day. I pulled out my collection of berries and I handed over a slice of bread and berries to my neighbor.

Once the sustenance was in his hand, Peeta glowered at it and declared, "I'm not really hungry." Then he got to his feet, staggered into the kitchen and removed the cap of a fresh bottle of liquor.

I stared aghast.

I worked my way over to him and grabbed the bottle from his grasp. I was still weak, but he was unsteady and already shaking badly. I was able to pull the glass from his fist and place it firmly behind my back.

"Peeta" my voice implored sadly.

"Thanks kindly for the stitches, but I think I've got it from here." He retorted sharply reaching for the bottle.

I may have had the upper hand initially, but Peeta was bigger and stronger than me. I attempted briefly to resist, but it was futile. Peeta had the bottle back quickly.

"At least eat something," I pleaded, looking at him directly.

He seemed to consider his options for a moment. He took a swig from the neck of the bottle and locked eyes with me.

"Alright."

END CHAPTER


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

I got him to eat the bread and berries. He even seemed to enjoy it. But, I saw him emptying his stomach contents into his bucket from my kitchen window later that evening. I hope he had digested some of the nutrition.

I needed to stop watching my deteriorating neighbor. It was making me step outside my mind. It made me care about someone other than myself. I had thought "that" Katniss had died out, and I was terrified and irritated that she choose now to rear her altruistic head.

I wondered if I had any curtain-like material lying around the house that might work to block my view. I would search the nooks and crannies in the morning. Now, it was time to watch the flames burn to embers and wait for my nightmares to find me. I curled myself into a tight womb-like posture on the couch and waited. The fire danced more and more quietly, its colors becoming deeper, its body returning to the wood that nourished it, it's lover that no longer had the power to feed it. I watched it die.

My night was filled with dying things. People, ideals, places, memories. They all died. I cried out to them silently. I cried out for them aloud. I woke again to the pre-dawn with a wet pillow and a pounding heart. That muscle inside me refused to quite. It just kept going and going, pounding, ticking, beating.

I cast off the blankets that had trapped me and fed myself. I began my hunt for curtains after I scolded myself for peering inquiringly into Peeta's house.

I wondered through the supply room, certain my mother or sister would stow material in this room. I flipped open the lids of boxes. I moved around medicine and other healing paraphernalia. I displaced an old T.V. that hadn't worked in years. I wiggled though newspapers, journals, and books on plant life my father had collected. I lost track of my original goal. I found myself touching odds and ins, remembering fondly a family member in the color of a hat, or the wear on an old pair of shoes, too small for any adult.

I then stumbled upon a find I had not anticipated: my bow and a quiver of arrows. I looked at them for a long time, unsure of what I should do with them. Ignore them, naturally, I thought to myself. But I couldn't leave the room without feeling the weight of them, touching them, feeling their smoothness, the sharp, deathly point of the arrow, the give of the bow. I walked without freewill in their direction. I felt them slide through my fingers. I found myself stroking them longingly.

Taking them from their hiding spot, I ambled outside, my feet pointing me towards the forest, my heart unable to redirect me. And so, I found myself here again, at the forest's edge, and I breathed deeply the smells so familiar and welcoming.

(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)

The feel of the bow in my arms, the pull and give of the string, made me feel more alive than I had since my sister had died. It came back like anything you were born to do does. I missed my first shot, hit a squirrel sloppily, and then nailed a porcupine through the eye.

I took my game and walked proudly back to the Victor's Village. I was Katniss the Hunter again, and I felt like a living creature. I smiled inwardly.

The smile faded as I walked past my neighbor's homes. I watched as Haymitch stepped quickly out of Peeta's house and made for his own. He spied me and casually lifted his arm with a non-committal wave.

I raised mine as an automatic response. My arm was heavy with game, but I lifted it smoothly, determined not to waiver.

He didn't speak to me, but his eyes said volumes: he was cheerless and defeated looking. He knew what he was doing was wrong, knew he shouldn't fan the fire. But, it appeared he would do it regardless.

I continued on my path to home.

(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)

I cleaned and gutted my kills. I made a stew with the squirrel, and a roast with the porcupine. It was too much food for me. I could have saved it. But, I knew Peeta was not eating without encouragement.

So I gathered the dinner and made my way across the lawn.

I had begun to find knocking redundant. I was just letting myself in anyways. And so, I let myself in. He had suggested that I should "help myself" at one point, I suppose that was what I was doing.

"Hello" I called out. The room was dark. "Peeta" I tried.

Nothing.

I set down dinner and flipped on a few lights, making my way from room to room, expecting an unconscious half-dead sprawl around each corner.

The downstairs was empty of human life. I examined the stairs. I hesitated. There was something inherently invasive about going up-stairs. But, my body refused to turn around.

I reached for the rail. The silkiness of the wood, well polished, greeted me. I gripped it tightly and ascended one step and then the next. I was breathless by the top.

The new stash of alcohol was piled neatly against the wall. I fumed at it. In a moment of anger, I didn't know I possessed, I hurried to the closest window and on opening it made several dumping trips. The crash of the glass as it split into tiny sharp pieces made me giddy and excited. My heart was beating fast and my breathing was ragged. I leaned against the windowpane until I had composed myself enough to move on.

I knew which bedroom would be his: the large one at the end, facing my own bedroom. I had seen the light flicker on and off before we were whisked off to the second round of hunger terrors.

The door was closed but unlocked. I gave easily under my weight and opened into a space that was entirely Peeta. The walls were white, but were covered with large art pieces. They were his, I could see immediately. All of them were his. Each canvas housed a memory, each was beautiful, and each was of me.

My jaw hung open, gapping and ready to catch small birds.

I stared at myself on each wall, painted over and over again. Pictures of me. Katniss in a wedding gown. Katniss hunting. Katniss standing next to her sister at the Reaping. Katniss bundled into herself on the floor of her house. Katniss kissing Gale. Katniss looking hard and unbreakable. Katniss looking away and forlorn. All of them of me.

His bedding was white. The lamp was white. The only life, the only color in the room was me.

Looking at the bed I saw the object of my hunt. Peeta lay face down in the sheets. He was naked and sleeping quietly.

I crawled up along side him and stared openly at him. I had never seen Peeta naked. There were bruises staining his skin pink and blue, green and grey. There were scratches, and the stitches I had placed. There were bones, more visible than I had imagined. He looked so brittle.

The peace of sleep seemed to be eluding him. His eyes moved restlessly behind their thin prison of skin. His muscles twitched and spasmed at random. His brow was furrowed and the skin on his forehead wrinkled unhappily.

But, he was still beautiful. He was still Peeta.

I leaned close. I ran my fingertips over the deep lines on his face. Traced them down his arm, along the steep curves of his open back. My eyes watered and my vision blurred. I forced my breathing to stay even.

He was breaking. He was dying. He was giving up and leaving me all alone, he would leave me only images of myself. I found the thought sickening.

"Please, Peeta. Stay for me. What will I do if you leave me?" I murmured.

His eyes fluttered and opened. He took a moment finding his bearings.

"You're in my room." The words a question as much as a statement.

"I brought you dinner."

"You shouldn't be here." His words were angry and vengeful.

"I'm sorry. I…" I struggled to find words. The beauty of his face had contorted into something much less welcoming. I stepped back from the bed, feeling far too close to him.

"Get out!" He yelled.

I continued my retreat all the way back to my house, leaving the game downstairs, leaving the broken bottles where they lay.

END CHAPTER


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

I hadn't run in so long that my muscles raged against me. Each filament protesting and burning. I enjoyed the feel of their torment. I welcomed the pain.

I locked my front door behind me, hungry for air, lungs fluttering full and empty like a great accordion. He didn't follow me, but, I keep my door locked as I snuggled into my cushions.

Sometime in the night I heard the pounding. I hadn't been asleep anyway; I had been thinking about him, thinking about District 12, about hunting, about my family, about everything and nothing. One thought seemed to lead to the next with out rhyme or reason and only broke apart at the banging. I was almost grateful for the recess.

The front door held firm, but the beating it was given clapped loudly through my empty home. I huddled against the cushions of the couch and listened wide eyed. The rhythm was urgent and angry.

After a few minutes came the yelling. The door was thick, but I could make out the most of it:

"…What the fuck did you do? You…"

"… me! You stole all of it!..."

"…How dare you! You…"

"…I can't believe you! You're horrible, you're…"

A part of me wanted to unlock the door and let him do to me whatever he had had in mind when he found the shattered bottles.

But a sliver of self-preservation kept me where I was.

He left after a while.

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The morning brought dark clouds and rain. Heavy wet drops that pounded and seemed to come from every direction.

I grabbed my hunting gear and jacket and headed off into the weather. I walked behind the houses, trying to stay out of sight, sloshing from puddle to puddle. I was armed, but unprepared for the emotional roll-a-coaster of running into Peeta.

I wanted to ask him about the paintings. I wanted to talk to him about his drinking. I wanted to comfort him. I wanted to reassure him. I wanted to reassure me. But, I really didn't want to fight with him, and so I avoided him.

I was more successful today. I shot a fawn and then spent the remainder of the morning hacking and portioning the beast to pack it home.

I left an armful behind Haymitch's and Peeta's homes, still afraid to leave them up front.

(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)

I bickered with myself for hours after my shower. Should I go over? Should I apologize? Should I check in? Should I make him dinner?

I paced the downstairs and role-played both myself and Peeta. Each conversation ended worse than the one before and I was stuck.

In the end the decision was made for me with a swift but subtle knock at the door.

I took a steadying breath and opened the door.

Peeta stood in front of me, head bowed, shoulders slumped.

"I'm sorry." He said flatly.

His hands were deep in his pockets, but even from the door I could see they were shaking.

Not knowing how to respond, I said nothing, but looked on at his trembling hands.

He looked up, attempting to assure himself that I was still there, that I had heard him.

"I shouldn't have come over here last night," he paused. "I don't want you to be afraid of me," his eyes bored into me. " But, perhaps it would be better if you stayed away." He said the words with such finality, with such conviction.

I nodded my head slowly, but wasn't sure I agreed.

"I'm not afraid of you." I countered finally as he turned his body to leave.

He looked back and smiled. "You really should be. I am," he added sadly.

I stepped onto the small porch and reached for his hand and pulled it from his pant pocket. It quivered in mine, cold and sweaty. He stared down at our connected skin and looked up shaking his head.

"Sometimes things work far better than you might have hoped," he mumbled. "Please, Katniss, don't," he finished, removing my hand from his with great care and effort.

"But, Peeta…" I stuttered, unsure how to proceed.

"Really Katniss, please. Don't. Go live your life; you look like your doing well. Just don't. I just can't." He said wearily.

"No. Peeta. Peeta, I need you to. What would I do?" I floundered around, not sure what I meant, or where this conversation was headed.

I was stifling tears, hating the disparity in his voice and mine.

"Let me help you. Peeta. Peeta, I want to help you."

"It's okay. I'm okay knowing that you'll be okay," he sighed. He looked up at me once more and smiled that Peeta smile I had loved once. It stayed only a moment, and he soon turned his back and began walking back toward his own home.

I shook my head angrily. He was doing it again, I realized as I watched him drogue back through the rain. He was playing the game. He was making sure I was the surviving tribute.

I closed the door and rested against the solid wood. I let my forehead press against the cold hardness and breathed deeply.

Two could play this game. And, had, if I recalled correctly.

END CHAPTER


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